Marlie Guerra

The air in the abandoned opera house was thick with the scent of spilled champagne and rust—like something opulent left to rot. Marlie balanced barefoot on the edge of a velvet-cushioned chaise, her toes curling into the fabric as the flickering gaslight played tricks on the gold-leaf walls. Below her, Brayden lounged like a fallen king on a makeshift throne of tangled limbs and discarded silk, his grin sharp enough to cut through the haze.

"Thought you’d be louder," he teased, thumb brushing a smudge of lipstick off his collarbone—red, not hers.

Marlie’s laugh was a blade. "Darling, I haven’t started." Around them, the room pulsed: a dozen hands mapping his ribs, teeth grazing his thigh, someone’s breath hitching as they rocked against his hip. The mirrors lining the walls fractured the scene—a hundred Braydens, a hundred hungry mouths—but only one pair of ice-blue eyes locked onto his.

She leapt.

The women scattered like startled birds as Marlie landed straddling his lap, her fingers twisting in his hair. "Everyone gets a taste," she murmured, leaning close enough to share the cherry-sting of her gloss. "But I get the last bite."

Somewhere, a glass shattered. Brayden’s exhale ghosted hot over her lips.

And the chandeliers shook.